The dark's not taking prisoners tonight
by braille upon my skin
Summary: "Sharpay's heart softens toward Troy, and, for the first time, she allows herself to think of him not as a ridiculously attractive thorn in her side, or the deadweight dragging her brother down, but as family." Familial Troy-Sharpay with mentions of Troy/Ryan, and Sharpay/Peyton.


**A/N:** Romantic Troy/Sharpay is a major, _major_ turn-off for me, but Troy and Sharpay ultimately setting aside their uncomfortable history to bond as brother and sister because of their relationships with and love for Ryan? I am _all_ about that.

This is my- admittedly angsty- take on one of those instances of bonding.

The title comes from the Twenty One Pilots song, "Ode To Sleep".

* * *

 _ **The dark's not taking prisoners tonight**_

 _ **-**_ ****

Ryan is held over at rehearsals. His newest production has entered Hell Week, and he's nearing his wit's end, making sure the dancers have the choreography down. The first break he gets, he contacts Sharpay and asks that she check in on Troy.

Check in. Sharpay thinks the request is ridiculous. Troy is a twenty-four year old grown man. He should be _more_ than capable of looking after himself, even with Ryan away from the apartment. But, there's an urgency to her brother's voice, a plea laced in his words that tugs at what Sharpay supposes would be her heartstrings, and, heaving a mostly half-hearted sigh, she complies.

She heads over to the preposterously tiny living space Ryan shares with the former Primo Boy of the high school they all attended. Ryan gave her a key, as family does, so she lets herself in.

The apartment is dark, which instantly strikes her as weird. It's nine o'clock, definitely not a time that any respectable twenty-something would be lying down for bed.

She scans the front room for any signs of life. Growing quickly exasperated, she keeps one hand on the doorknob to make it easier on herself when she turns right around and leaves, in a minute.

"Trooooy," she calls. "Helloooo? Anyone home?"

Predictably, there's no response. Rolling her eyes, she whirls on her heels, ready to exit the building, hail a cab, and head home to Peyton, who is most likely waiting at their penthouse apartment with boxes of steaming, freshly delivered Chinese takeout. A notion that, eight years ago, she never could have imagined holding so much appeal to her, but life has always had a way of throwing her for a loop.

Right as she's about to cross over the threshold and leave Troy to his own devices, she picks up on a faint noise coming from the bedroom.

Whimpering.

Sharpay's exasperation increases tenfold. Her… _fascination_ with Troy ended rather abruptly, sometime during the summer of their junior year. He was a good guy, sure, but decidedly _not_ what she was looking for. What she _needed_. Late in their senior year, Troy only further illustrated this point by devolving into what could be generously described as a mess. A confused, dependent, hopeless _mess_ that even his good looks couldn't conceal. And, in Sharpay's mind, beauty serves no purpose if it can't mask a person's crippling flaws.

Just her luck, then, that her twin brother snagged Troy not at his peak, but well after his degeneration.

The Troy Bolton that Sharpay Evans has the "pleasure" of calling her brother in-law awakens in the middle of the night, often wild-eyed and screaming at the top of his lungs, from nightmares. He can't stay out too late, or he'll slip from the giddy madness of intoxication into a sad, sorry state, tears moistening his inhumanly blue eyes as he goes on and on about how much of a failure and an idiot he is, how much he hates himself, how everyone would be better off if he was gone.

It puts a damper on everyone's spirits, and leaves Sharpay's Boy Scout of a husband pacing across the floor of their penthouse, forehead creased with clear distress as he ponders aloud "how someone as good as Troy could talk about himself like that".

She's not exactly proud of it, but, more than once, Sharpay has taken Ryan aside to calmly, helpfully suggest that he leave his broken mess of a husband.

Every damn time, he has dug his heels into the ground and obstinately refused. He " _loves"_ Troy. He " _needs_ Troy as much as Troy needs him".

Sharpay insists that even the most mind-blowing sex in the world isn't worth putting up with Troy's obvious and plentiful downsides.

Still, Ryan _did_ ask her to do this for him, and she knows if she hurried home without making sure that Troy hasn't slit his wrist, or hanged himself, Ryan and Peyton would never forgive her.

She doesn't think she could forgive herself, either.

Abandoning her one exit from the apartment, she cautiously maneuvers through the darkened front room, toward the bedroom at the back of the living space. She can just discern the outline of Troy's sturdy form sitting hunched on the bed. He's nursing a bottle of beer, and Sharpay can see two more bottles, empty, lying at his feet.

Something inside of her hardens, a coil wound tight with mounting fury. This is _beyond_ pathetic. "Jesus," she scoffs. "Ryan just got held up at rehearsals. He's not leaving you for some Broadway stud. You can quit it with the pity party."

Troy turns to face her, and there's so much fear, such intense sadness darkening his eyes, Sharpay's breath catches in her throat and a weight hits her stomach like a rock. "You want him to leave me, though. Don't you, Sharpay?" There's no real bite, no accusatory sting to Troy's words. His voice is too soft, too _broken_ to deliver on that front. Despite the amount of alcohol he's consumed, his hands tremble with _terror_. Even with the dim lighting of the street lamps outside the window, Sharpay can see stains streaking down Troy's cheeks, indicating that he's been crying. His usually silky brown hair is mussed, and he looks like he hasn't slept properly in days.

The coil in Sharpay abdomen begins to unwind. Troy _is_ a mess. Undeniably. But…

Sharpay has never heard her pale, sickly little brother laugh as much as he does with Troy in the picture. It's embarrassing, yes, how obviously the red hickeys that Troy dots Ryan's neck with stand out against the stretch of white skin, but the contented flush coloring Ryan's cheeks, something Sharpay never thought she'd ever see, has brought more than one unconscious smile to Sharpay's lips.

Troy brings Ryan lunch during long rehearsal days, and waits backstage to present him with a bouquet of roses after every show. He doesn't tease Ryan for the way he dresses, or for his ever present hats. He makes Ryan tea and chicken soup when Ryan is sick, and spoils him with shoulder and neck massages when Ryan is tense with nerves the night before one of his shows opens.

While Sharpay and Peyton are trading looks during one of Troy's drunken, depressive episodes- Peyton's blue eyes wide with bewilderment, brows knitting with concern; Sharpay embarrassed, fed up, and ready to leave- Ryan hugs Troy tightly and assures him that Troy is so valuable and important, and that he'll never, _ever_ leave him.

He manages to talk him down, every time.

Back in high school, Sharpay never would have imagined that her quiet, socially awkward brother would be able to expertly navigate the waters of the Wildcat Superstar's paranoia and depression.

She knows that she, personally, would never have the patience.

Troy is _such_ a mess, but… he and Ryan love each other. After Peyton called her out on not being able to recognize that her own dog had fallen head over heels for his competition, Sharpay can't, _won't_ make that mistake with her own flesh and blood.

"No," she assures Troy softly, as close to gently as she can manage. She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, shame heating her insides. Troy _never_ should have found out about her attempts to persuade Ryan to leave him. She couldn't even imagine how much it would hurt if she discovered that one of Peyton's friends had been trying to encourage Peyton to up and abandon her. It was selfish, and she was _wrong_. "No, I don't. He loves you, and you two are good for each other."

Fresh tears streak down Troy's face and he runs his free hand through his hair, seizing a clump of it and yanking at it. "I love him _so_ much," he croaks, his voice watery and still broken. "I don't know what I would do without him. I jus'… jus' wanna be good to him, and take care of him forever."

"I know." Sharpay's heart softens toward Troy, and, for the first time, she allows herself to think of him not as a ridiculously attractive thorn in her side, or the deadweight dragging her brother down, but as _family_. She pulls tissues out of the pocket of her sparkling pink coat, and hands them to Troy right as he's about to wipe his eyes, and probably his nose, with his sleeve.

"Thank you," he hiccups.

"Yeah, well…" The coil in Sharpay's abdomen continues to unwind, and she lets the tiniest sliver of a smile play on her lips. "Maybe having two brothers isn't such a bad thing, after all. Even _if_ one of them is a walking disaster, sometimes."

Troy manages a laugh, and Sharpay's smile feels more authentic.

"Barely walking," Troy amends, gesturing toward his right leg. He shattered his knee during the opening game of his sophomore year of college, and his range of mobility has been limited ever since.

Normally, Sharpay isn't a fan of self-deprecating humor, but she'll take it over tears. "Yeah. You're a cripple, all right. A cripple that my crazy brother is madly in love with. So, let's cease the waterworks, okay?"

Troy nods and wipes at his nose- like Sharpay thought- and eyes with a balled up tissue.

"And, clean up this mess before Ryan gets home." Sharpay nudges a beer bottle with her foot.

"I will," Troy promises, already setting the half-full bottle he was nursing aside to drop to the floor and retrieve his trash.

Figuring that her job is just about done, Sharpay moves to the door. A thought occurs to her and she looks over her shoulder to add, "And, don't go offing yourself, or anything stupid like that."

Troy stills, the empty bottles in his hands. He sniffles and says, "Thanks, Sharpay."

Sharpay is only able to nod in acknowledgement. She's reached her sentimentality limit, for one night.

But… as she's exiting the apartment complex, a wordless, "No, thank _you_ ", forms on her lips. 


End file.
